I drove up in my silver Mercedes sedan and felt embarrassed about it. I parked at the far end of the lot, hoping Winston wouldn’t see me. But he did.
“Over here,” he yelled.
When I made it to the car, Winston leaned over and opened the passenger door.
“Hop in, bud.”
Bud hopped in.
“Know my favorite song?” Winston asked.
“No.”
“ ‘Money.’ By Pink Floyd. Know my favorite artist?”
I shook my head.
“Eddie Money.”
I said: “Yes, he’s good.”
“My favorite movie? The Color of Money. Favorite baseball player of all time — Norm Cash. Second favorite — Brad Penny.”
“Yes, Winston,” I said, “I have your money.”
“Hey, who was asking for money? ” Winston said. “I was just making conversation.”
A number seven train rumbled over the el, showering sparks down onto the street.
“But now that you mention it,” Winston continued, “where is it?”
I reached into my pocket. It's burning a hole in my pocket — isn’t that the expression? A messenger from Headquarters Productions had dropped off the manila envelope yesterday.
“Five thousand,” I said. “The other half after.”
“You see that in a movie?” Winston asked, still smiling.
“What?”
“The ‘other half after’ stuff? You see that in a movie or something?”
“Look, I just thought — ”
“What’s the deal, bud? I believe, when I said I’d do this, from the goodness of my heart, by the way—because you’re a pal and you’re in trouble—you said ten thousand.”
“I know what we — ”
“A deal’s a deal, right?”
“I understand.”
“What were the terms?”
“I think one-half — ”
“Tell me what the terms were, Charles.”
“Ten thousand,” I said.
“Ten thousand. Right. Ten thousand for what?”
“What do you mean?”
“What are you giving me ten thousand for? Because you like me? ’Cause you want to send me back to college?”
“Look, Winston . . .” I suddenly wanted to be somewhere else.
“Look,Charles. I think maybe there’s some kind of confusion. I want to review the terms with you. You ask someone to do something like this for you, you have to know what the terms are.”
“I know the terms.”
“You do? Then state them for me so there’s no confusion. What are you giving me ten thousand for?”
“I’m giving you ten thousand to. . . make Vasquez go away.”
Winston said: “Yeah, right—that’s what I thought the terms were. Ten thousand to make Vasquez go away.” He pulled something out of his pocket. “Here’s my argument to make him go away,” he said. “What do you think? Think he’ll listen to it?”
“A gun.” I felt myself recoil; I edged back against the window.
“Hey — you’re good,” Winston said. “You sure you haven’t done this before?”
“Look, Winston, I don’t want . . .”
“What? You don’t want to look at it? Neither will he. What did you think I was going to do, Charles — ask him nicely?”
“I just want . . . you know . . . if at all possible . . .”
“Yeah, well, just in case it’s not at all possible.”
“Okay,” I said. “Okay.” I had been thinking in euphemisms all this time — making Vasquez go away. Doing something about him. Taking care of him. But this was the way a Vasquez was taken care of, Winston was saying. Sometimes it was this way.
“Okay what?” Winston said.
“Huh?”
“ ‘Okay, here’s your ten thousand, Winston’?”
“Yes,” I said, giving up.
“Great,” he said. “For a second there I thought you were only giving me half.”
I took the envelope out of my pocket and handed it over.
“You’re too easy, Charles,” Winston said. “I would’ve settled for three-quarters.”
Then, after he’d counted it all, he said: “Where?”
TWENTY-THREE
Under the West Side Highway.
One week into the new year.
I was sitting next to Winston in a rented metallic blue Sable with leather seats. Winston had his eyes closed.
I could see a lone tugboat chugging its way up a Hudson River so black, it was as if it weren’t there. Just an empty black space where the river ought to be. It was cold and sleeting; thin slivers of glass were exploding onto my face through the open window.
I was shivering.
I was trying not to think about something. I was trying to stay calm.
There was a hooker standing on the corner across the street. She’d been standing there ever since I entered the car.
I was looking at her and wondering where her customers were.
A fair question, since it was only a little past ten, and she was wearing a sheer red negligee and shiny black boots. She’d been dropped off by a Jeep with New Jersey license plates and was waiting for some other car with New Jersey license plates to come along. But it had been ten minutes and she was still stuck out there in the sleet. Doing nothing much but looking across the street at the blue Sable, which didn’t seem to be moving, either.
She looked as if she were freezing. She had a small fake fur wrap around her shoulders, but other than that nothing, lots of pasty white flesh out there where her customers could see it and put a price tag on it.
But where were her customers?
The insurance salesman from Teaneck, the broker from Piscataway, the truck driver on his way to the Lincoln Tunnel?
I was under the West Side Highway because that’s where Vasquez had told me to meet him.
Do you have the money? he'd asked me.
Yes, I did.
You’ll meet me ten o’clock at Thirty-seventh and the river.
Yes, I would.
You’ll tell nobody — understand?
Yes, I did. (Well, maybe just one other person.)
You’ll show up alone.
Yes, I would. (Well, maybe not exactly alone.)
How long had the hooker been standing there without a customer? I thought again. How long, exactly?
Then she began to walk over to me.
In the middle of the street now, closer to me than away from me, so I knew that she wouldn’t be turning back. Her boot heels echoing as she made a beeline for the blue Sable that had been sitting there all this time without moving an inch.
“Want a date?” she asked me when she reached my window. I could see actual goose bumps on her breasts and legs, because her breasts were only half-hidden by the red negligee and her legs were naked save for those calf-length boots.
No, I didn’t want a date. I wanted her to leave.
“No.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. Her face was young but old, so it was practically impossible to tell her age. Anywhere from twenty to thirty-five. “You got a cigarette?”
“No.”
But there was a pack of cigarettes sitting on the seat between Winston and me — Winston’s cigarettes. She could clearly see them there, one or two cigarettes even peeking out of the torn wrapper.
“So what are those? ” she asked me.
“Wait a minute,” I said. I reached for the pack, but when I picked it up I got a piece of Winston’s brain matter on my hand — the pack was smeared with it. I pulled one cigarette out anyway and handed it to her through the window.